Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (20 page)

I waved to Matt on my way through the workshop, settled on the Mono with the ease of experience, and pressed 1. Time to begin my day as chatelaine of Stonegrave Abbey.

Oddly enough, our “female flight” over Hertfordshire was strangely anticlimactic. Except for Lexa looking a bit like Ann Boleyn on the way to the chopping block—at least I thought that’s the way Henry VIII’s second wife must have looked—all went well. I sat next to Lexa in one of a pair of well-padded seats and showed her how to belt herself in. Phoebe sat across the aisle from us, her nose to her very own porthole. Lady Thistlewaite occupied the row behind Phoebe, her skirts spread wide. I grumbled a bit as Matt slipped into the seat next to Julian. Though I was pleased to accept the duty of helping Lexa through this ordeal, looking out the small round porthole to her left was not at all the same as the view through the broad window up front. Nor was sitting next to Lexa, as much as I liked her, the same as sitting next to Julian.

A sad case
, hissed my inner voice.

Do be quiet!

He’s using you. You’re naught but another one of his tools.

I jerked my seat belt so hard, the whalebones in my corset stabbed me. I gasped.

“Minta?” He’d heard me! And why shouldn’t he when I was sitting no less three feet behind his captain’s chair?

“’Tis nothing,” I replied hastily. “I nicked a fingernail on the buckle.”

Julian flashed me a highly personal grin before getting up and examining each lady’s seat belt. Satisfied, he returned to his pilot’s chair and checked the instruments in front of him. “Ready, ladies?” he called. A rhetorical question. Replies died on our lips as the airship rose. I squeezed Lexa’s hand and urged her to look out. I checked the older ladies to find my mama-in-law peering out the porthole, even as her fingers clutched her reticule so tightly her knuckles were white.

A squeal from Phoebe brought my head around, only to discover it was a squeal of pure glee. “I’m flying,” she cried. “I love it. I could stay up here all day.”

“It’s lovely,” said a soft voice, as we soared over the Abbey’s outer wall and looked down on the farms and fields below. I stared at Lexa, who, most amazingly, was smiling. “I like your machine, Lord Rochefort,” she called. “It will do very well.”

Julian turned, inclined his head. “Thank you, Miss Smythe. I promise it will serve you well.”

We spent an hour aloft, but the battle was won in those first few minutes. Now Julian’s plans could go forward. Except, that is, for the traitor and a murderer in our midst. Julian had set guards outside Lexa’s door, but we were now living under siege, tension mounting by the moment. Whatever the monarchists’ plans, they needed to happen soon. I was quite certain rumors of the plot had gotten out, even before the airship’s first flight. Even Julian now admitted the bullet that hit me might have been intended for Lexa, whose size and coloring I so closely resembled.

With these thoughts pounding through my head, I missed a good deal of the last twenty minutes of the flight. Phoebe’s excited chatter bounced off my occupied brain as we walked back toward the house, surrounded by a ring of armed guards. I could hardly wait to get to the peace and quiet of my bedchamber.

With the excuse of changing my clothes for luncheon, I lingered in my room, snuggling into one of the comfortable chairs before the marble fireplace while I attempted to sort it all out. The fire and the attempt to get into the workshop housing
Aurora
were most likely the work of a rival airship group. The shot had to have come from someone who knew about the monarchist plot and was determined to end it before it began, though whether by killing the rightful queen or by killing Julian, the brains behind her descent from the heavens into the heart of London, remained a mystery. The ring of armed guards which swiftly followed had made us feel secure. Falsely so, for a traitor lived among us.

To the government
, you’re
the traitor
, my inner voice declared.

Oh, for Heaven’s sake
, my common sense retorted.
Britain was meant to be a monarchy.

And when had I become an advocate for revolution? During the length of my Papa’s many lectures on the subject? When I married it? When I met Lexa?

After the guards came, I had been able to put assassination to the back of my mind. But murder in the wine cellar said it wasn’t so. We were all vulnerable. Perhaps
Aurora
’s next flight would encounter a regiment of rifles hiding in a copse, ready to blow both gondola and balloons full of holes.

Merde!

And my prime candidates for murderer? Somehow I couldn’t quite see Mrs. E stabbing a man, even though the large knife found in the picture taker’s chest had been traced back to the Abbey kitchen.

Drummond? I suppose I found him suspicious because he had run the household in Scotland of Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg Saalford, also known as the Duchess of Kent. Or more simply, Lexa’s mama. Drummond also seemed far too well acquainted with Lady Carlyon. And yet, from what I could determine, the marchioness and the duchess were equally determined to place Lexa on the throne, even if their motives might be suspect. The Duchess of Kent presumed to ascend to all the prestige of Queen Mother. Lady Carlyon, I surmised, saw herself as the queen’s trusted advisor.

Soames? He might look ineffectual, but I’d been at the Abbey long enough to know that Soames was indispensable, the man who tended to details so Julian might create in peace. Personally, Byram Soames might fade into the woodwork, but his competency was unquestioned. I’d also learned he had evangelical leanings, which could mean . . . almost anything. He seemed irreproachable, the last man to commit murder. And for what possible motive? Evidently, he’d been with the family since before Julian was born.

Matt? No. I absolutely refused to think Matt capable of being anything but Julian’s right hand in the workshops. I liked Matt. And yet . . . he came from poverty and if offered enough money . . .

Lord Wandsley? The thought of that portly gentleman creeping about the cellars with a knife almost sent me into whoops. The truth was, the killer could be anyone from a footman to one of our guards masquerading under false colors. There were simply too many people on the Abbey grounds at the moment. Finding the killer was like searching for a needle in the proverbial haystack.

I attempted a different approach to the problem. Not who killed the poor daguerreotypist, but
why
? Had he been eliminated so he would not reveal who hired him? Or because he was seen as a threat to the monarchist cause? In short, he could have been killed by friends instead of enemies.

And what had happened to his camera plates? I must remember to ask Julian about them. Hopefully, they were nothing more than shattered bits of glass. Yet Julian was always so curious about how things worked . . . and how could he resist keeping images of his airship as it flew over the Abbey grounds?

I muttered a few more choice words and threw up my hands, literally and figuratively giving up the fight. For half my life Lord Protector Wellington had symbolized peace, a firm hand on the realm, Britain moving onward to new glories. He was a
hero
, standing over our lives like a colossus. Keeping us safe. We saw his noble visage on every public wall, his piercing eyes staring at us from behind the glass in every print shop. I suppose they’ll find a word someday for those who cling to the familiar, rather than embrace the new and frequently better. But at the moment I suffered wrenching confusion. I would, of course, follow where Julian led, and I was willing to believe Lexa had a right to the throne, yet what would happen to the gallant but autocratic general who saved Britain and the continent from Napoleon Bonaparte?

“M–my lady!” A panting Tillie paused, clutching the door jamb, eyes wide with fear. “The vicar’s come, m’lady, riding his poor old Mollie like the devil was after him. Or so Donald says. Somethin’ bad is happening. Mr. Drummond’s sent for his lordship and told me to come for you.”

“The vicar?” I repeated while my mind raced. Dear God, Wellington had assembled an army and was about to walk over our thin line of guards as if they didn’t exist.

“It’s got to be bad, m’lady, for him to ride his poor old horse like that. You must come now!”

I stood, shook out my skirts, patted my unruly hair back into place, and headed for the front staircase.

When I arrived in the drawing room, the vicar was pacing the floor while Drummond stood sentry at the door. “Mr. Truesdale,” I said, mindful of the manners my governess had drummed into my head, “how nice to see you again. And I must thank you for your calls during my illness—and the
Book of Prayer
. Most thoughtful.”

For a moment he gazed at me as if he had no idea what I was talking about. He coughed, his eyes focused, and he managed, “Indeed, Lady Rochefort, it was the least I could do. And thank you for your most gracious note.”

I took pity on him, and, truthfully, my curiosity refused to put up with any further conventional exchanges. I sat on the gold brocade sofa and motioned him to a nearby chair. “I understand there is a problem?”

“Evangelicals.” He spat the word. “There’s been a great deal of agitation among them, ever since his lordship launched his airship. But today, rumors are rampant in the village. Several of my parishioners, loyal to the Stonegrave family, have come to me today, saying a mob is gathering at the Evangelical’s meeting hall, whipped into fury by men come from London. Each hour more strangers are arriving—by train, wagon, cart, and shank’s mare. ’Tis said they plan to attack, to burn the devil’s airship. Man was never intended to fly.”

Mr. Truesdale’s words ran out as he gasped for breath, his kindly face distorted in anxiety.

I looked to Drummond, but he had anticipated my request and was pouring out a tot of brandy, which the vicar accepted with considerable gratitude.

At that point Julian strode through the door, and the story was repeated. “How many?” he asked, but the vicar could only shake his head. Certainly more than the meeting house could hold, with more arriving by the minute.

“Clever,” Julian said softly. I stared. “This isn’t local. As much as our Mrs. H and her friends fear my inventions, they wouldn’t do this. They think I’m peculiar, they might even think I do the work of the devil, but their families have lived here for generations. They’d never attack a Stonegrave. Not on their own.”

“Outside agitators,” I said.

“Indeed.”

“But we can’t have a war on the Abbey grounds,” I said. “That would be all the excuse the military needs to—”

“Precisely.”

I slumped on the sofa, staring straight ahead, seeing only the yawning pit opening at our feet. All Julian’s plans, my dreams. Lexa. The monarchist revolution cut off before it had a chance to flower.

“Are they armed?” It took a moment for Julian’s question to the vicar to sink in. I tossed my faint-heartedness into the pit instead of myself and paid attention to their conversation.

Mr. Truesdale frowned, obviously searching his memory. “Clubs, yes. I saw no guns, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a cache of them somewhere.”

“Thank you, V
icar.” Julian held out his hand. “Let me assure you, your warning has saved far more than bloodshed at the Abbey. I am eternally grateful. I will have two of my most experienced men scout the village, and I trust we will come up with a suitable plan before it comes to blood and mayhem.”

They shook hands, and Drummond showed the vicar out.

“Dammit, Minta, don’t look like that. Do you think I can’t handle this?”

“If this incident is an excuse to bring Wellington’s troops down on our heads, then it doesn’t matter what we do. Win or lose, we’ll find ourselves in the Tower, and Lexa along with us. If she doesn’t just ‘disappear’ along the way.”

“O ye of little faith.”

Julian’s scorn sliced through me, but I saw no way out of this tangle.

“I must consider the worst aspects of this, Minta, but it may yet prove to be nothing more than a few religious hysterics exciting a mob against what they see as the devil’s handiwork.”

“And if it’s a convoluted Machiavellian plot by the government?”

“We’ll find a way around it.”

I let sarcasm get the better of me. “Any secret rooms, a tunnel or two, some way to get Lexa out of here?”

“As a matter of fact . . .” Julian grinned at me.

The Evangelicals were right. My husband might very well have a touch of the devil.

Chapter 16

“The tunnel is very old,” Julian said, as he slid his fingers behind a dusty wine rack, “but the family has always kept it in good repair. After all, it served the monks well—almost all of them managed to escape old Henry’s troops.”

I shuddered in the cellar’s cold. The picture-taker’s body was gone, but the place where blood had seeped into the hard-packed dirt floor was still clearly visible.

Click.
Julian put his shoulder to the six-foot wooden wine rack, filled top to bottom with bottles, and heaved. The rack inched forward, revealing an opening just wide enough for a person to slip through.